


Nobody's Fucking Hero

by Sar_Kalu



Series: A String of W.I.P's [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Been edited coz people have asked for more and I'm a sucker for validation yanno, Criminal Harry Potter, Gen, Harry Stabbed Vernon 5 Times in the Chest, Juvenile Delinquent Harry Potter, Precocious Brat much, Quite a bit of swearing - if you're not into that, Seventh year, WIP, age 9, maybe chuff off elsewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Mr. Harry Potter of Feltham Correctional Facility, was proud to say that he was on his very best behaviour, thank you very much - he's on early parole for Good Behaviour, his Uncle's pushing up fucking daisies, and he's the very bemused owner of a stick that shoots multicoloured sparks... his new School and Home won't know what's hit it.(Newly edited: 5/11/18)





	1. Chapter 1

I.

 

Mrs. Dursley of Number 6, Westminster Lane, Harrogate Hill, was proud to say that she were perfectly normal, thank you very much. 

 

Petunia Dursley was a thin woman with twice the usual amount of neck that came in handy when she peered over the back fence to spy upon the neighbours. Mrs. Dursley had long coppery brown hair and hazel eyes and was always attired in a neatly pressed dress of a pale blue or green. 

 

Petunia also had a son and thought that there was no finer boy anywhere. Dudley Dursley was a large beefy boy with thick blonde hair and very little neck. Dudley was in his final year of schooling at Smeltings High School and had an internship with Grunnings, a large firm that made drills.

 

Petunia was immensely proud of her son but couldn't bare the thought if anyone at all found out about her most closely guarded secret:

 

Harry Potter.

 

The Potter boy was a month younger than her own beloved son, Dudley but was not nearly so well mannered or kind and Petunia Dursley dreaded the thought that one day, one of those types might knock on her door and ask her about him.

 

The day her beloved Vernon had died still haunted her worst memories. It had been a bright, summery day filled with airy golden light that made the very air seem to sing with joy - for it had been her Dudder’s tenth birthday and there was no better day in Petunia Dursley’s calendar.

 

The Potter boy, as was custom, had been making her beloved family’s breakfast - a decent spread of fried eggs, hash browns, fried tomatoes, proper English pork sausages, short-cut bacon, and beans. In between the mutinous glaring of the Potter boy at Dudley in jealousy, who had been counting his thirty-nine presents and exclaiming about it being his biggest haul yet - and Vernon who had been delighting over Dudley’s growth and strength now he was ten - and Petunia’s own tearful exclamations over her baby boy being all grown up… something had gone terribly wrong.

 

Petunia remembers that Vernon had roared in rage, but whether that had happened before or after that Potter boy had snapped and started to stab his Uncle five times in the chest with a kitchen knife. Petunia also remembers how Dudley had screamed - screams that still echoed loudly in her ear at night in the dark of her dreaming - and how her baby boy had all but tried to climb out of the window in his fear and had been too large to manage. Petunia also remembers slamming a sticky hot fry pan still greasy with pig fat from the sausages into her ugly little nephews shoulder.

 

She still bore muscle deep scars from the heat of the fry pan on her hands. On days when was cold or she’d been doing a lot of gardening, those scars ached in a way that suggested that such a bone deep ache would only get worse the older she got.

 

Standing in front of the window of her kitchen, overlooking the grey buildings of East London, Petunia Dursley hoped that she never would see her evil little nephew ever again - those big, dark, green eyes haunted her and she swore she could see them in the reflection of the window glass in front of her.

 

Returning to the washing up of this mornings dishes, Petunia fought against the shiver that wanted to crawl down her spine in remembered horror.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was infinitely proud to say that he was wonderfully abnormal, thank you very much.

 

Albus Dumbledore enjoyed wearing the finest wizarding robes of infinite colours that had little silver moons and golden stars sewn into them - the magic imbued into the fabric made those stars and moons dance across his chest, down his arms, and around his legs and feet. Albus Dumbledore also loved wearing pointy toed boots made of the finest black dragon leather and a pair of half-moon spectacles that sat on the bridge of his very crooked nose. 

 

However, Mr. Albus Dumbledore had a secret - one he dared not let anyone of the bumbling Ministry or Greater Wizarding public know about:

 

He was looking for Mr. Harry Potter, who was six years late in attending the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry anywhere: Hogwarts.

 

Albus Dumbledore had been more than a little horrified to note that the wards around Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey on the 23rd of June, 1990 had more than fallen - they had crashed and burned with a finality of loathing and fear. The intervening seven years had been spent furiously, albeit quietly, overturning the muggle world while trying to find the young Potter heir.

 

Thus far, the only clue that Albus had found was that Mr. Vernon Dursley had been murdered in his home on the occasion of his son’s tenth birthday - which matched the date that the wards had fallen. However, there was no mention of the murderer in the papers except to state that the offender had been removed to Feltham’s Correctional Facility in West London.

 

Albus had attempted to enter the facility to ascertain who had murdered Mr. Dursley, but had been gainsaid by the worst people in the world: bureaucrats. Simply put, Albus had no business sticky-beaking into a juvenile facility and Albus actually had to reassure the people running the show that he wasn’t a _paedophile_ of all things.

 

Albus had been more than a little affronted by that assumption - he was the foremost Headmaster of the Leading School of Magical Britain, if not the world if one believed Ministry propaganda. 

 

And so, Albus spent seven years searching for one Mister Harry Potter, all the while trying to seem like he had the young Boy-Who-Lived stashed away in a place where he was training the Potter Heir in the most esoteric magical arts to later be unveiled to defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort at the most opportune time.

 

A Dark Lord who had appeared once more in 1994 to the delighted heraldry of the worst sort of wizards that Britain played host to.

 

Albus Dumbledore was running out of time.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Harry Potter of Feltham Correctional Facility, was proud to say that he was on his very best behaviour, thank you very much.  

 

Harry Potter had quite enjoyed living in Feltham Correctional Facility: it was warm, there had been an excess of food and the guards had stopped anyone from overly harming him.

 

All in all it was quite nice living in Feltham. 

 

Harry Potter had shorn, black hair and bright green eyes that went rather well with his bright orange jumpsuit - even if he did say so himself. Harry also wore a pair of rounded-square glasses that had to replace the old wire-rimmed round glasses that had been snapped in a scuffle over the last vanilla pudding at dinner two years ago.

 

A year out from being of-age, Harry was more than a little impressed with his lean, yet lightly muscular physique and wondered if he’d be able to beat Dudley at fisticuffs now he was out and free to cause more trouble - although, Harry granted that he had moved on from murder; that didn’t mean he was adverse to a little hell-raising now and then.

 

As Harry was now 17 and had being granted early parole so he wouldn't have to be transferred to an adult facility where the consequences to his actions - or lack thereof - would be much more stringent. Thusly, Harry didn't quite know what to make of his new freedom, but he assumed that past seven years had been detrimental to his understanding of the world. Considering that he’d been locked up since he was ten and had little knowledge of what he was meant to do next. Harry had his A levels and was vaguely considering doing his GCSE’s and going to university - but he didn’t know _what precisely_ to do with himself. So the first thing the newly freed seventeen year old did, was visit Scotland Yard.


	4. Chapter 4

Janet Pierce was Scotland Yard's longest serving secretary, she had worked, lived and breathed the police force for the past forty years and was very rarely surprised by anyone or anything that waltzed through the glass front doors.  

 

Harry Potter, however, was very much a surprise, considering he wasn’t meant to be anywhere near here - according to scuttlebutt amongst the magical community her mother had been a member of.

 

Which is why the moment the dark haired teen had identified himself, he had been hustled into a back room and plied with water and sandwiches while the magical liaison Janet had contacted tried to understand just how the Wizarding Worlds Favourite Hero was apparently an ex-con.

 

"You killed your Uncle?" Liaison Donahue asked queasily of the green eyed teen in front of him, noting that while the boy was apparently a hardened criminal, his eyes still shone with youth and vitality.

 

"Yeah," Harry agreed nonchalantly, as if there was nothing wrong with murder. "Stabbed him five times in the chest with a kitchen knife after he tried to whip me with his belt for eating the bacon I was supposed to be cooking for breakfast.”

 

Donahue went green. "That's awful.”

 

"I served my time but," Harry supplied easily, wondering just why a greenhorn was questioning him over a murder seven years passed. “Is there a reason why I'm here in Interrogation three, Officer?”

 

"Uh..."

 

**———**

 

Three hours later Harry was being escorted through London by three men dressed in blood red dresses. Personally Harry had no fucking clue as to what the hell was going on. After all, having lived in a prison through his formative years, Harry had seen more his fair share of the weird and the wonderful. One of his ex-cellmates had snapped on skag just last year and ran full tilt into one of the brick walls landing himself in a hospital bed dreaming through a coma; but Harry also knew that magic wasn't real. Given his experiences and that he’d eaten his body weight in the sandwiches that the coppers had given him - free food was the best food - Harry was beginning to think drugs were the reason for all of this.

 

Narrowly glaring at the three men in dresses, Harry touched the waistband of his jeans, shoulders relaxing as he noted that: _yeah, his shank was still there_. Never leave home without it, Harry grinned to himself, unnerving just about every good man, woman and child around him. 

 

What do you know, the average human being has a sense of self preservation.

 

Of course the fact that he was covered in Prison Tats had nothing to do with it...

 

Did it?

 

**\---**

 

Diagon Alley, as if the name wasn't fuck arse stupid, but it was straight from one of those high school text books that the prison teacher made him read. 

 

It was bustling. Harry hadn’t realised that busting was more than just a word in a pretty fiction book but also accurately described the milling and thronging of the crowded street before him. There were shops selling normal things like books, food, and clothing; but there were others selling the down right strange: owls, potions, potion _ingredients_ , wands, Quidditch supplies - what the fuck was Quidditch? - and sweets that ran _away_ from you, Harry stared as a five year old boy darted in front of he and his escorts, chasing a slowly melting chocolate frog.

 

Harry was unimpressed.

 

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

 

**\---**

 

"Oi, midget, where's me fucking money?" Harry demanded of the first of two short arsed creepy shit faced freaks that guarded the front doors of the biggest white marble building Harry had ever seen.

 

Harry's auror escort winced and went to draw their wands.

 

"Did you speak to me, human?" The Goblin Guard snarled furiously, hefting his battle axe.

 

Harry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, like some tiny shrimp was gonna scare him. "Yeah, that's right small fry, I was talkin' to you.”

 

The Goblin bared its teeth in rage, trying to stare the human boy down.

 

"You are either very brave, or very stupid boy." The Goblin informed Harry, stretching his teeth into a wide smile.

 

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before, shrimpy. Now, where's the fucking money?" Harry snapped, overriding the Goblin's silent warning.

 

The aurors couldn't pretend to be surprised when the goblins threw Potter from the front steps with a bag of heavy gold in his arms. Just because he was a customer didn't mean that they had to treat him kindly.

 

"Fuckers," Harry hissed venomously, a broad smile stretching his lips to bare his teeth as he delighted in the memory of the cart ride down into the bowels of the bank. Twisting around, Harry shot the two guards out the front a sharp salute and grinned even harder as the goblin guards bared their teeth right back at him and clenched their gnarled, knobby hands about the hafts of the spears tighter in blatant threat.

 

Harry laughed, brazen and delighted.

 

**\---**

 

So, they were called robes, not dresses. 

 

Who knew? 

 

The red haired kid being measured beside him was grumpily trying on a pair of second hand robes in dark blue. Harry thought that with the long hair that went passed his shoulders and bright blue eyes the guy looked really girlish - not that Harry had any problems with cross-dressers and the like, in fact one of his best mates in Feltham had been a transman, who had taken a disliking to his Mum’s attempts to cure him of his gayness and decked the woman into next week - literally. When he said so, minus the story about Travis, Harry wasn't expecting to be fixed at stick point and scowled at.

 

"I am a girl!" The redhead snapped.

 

"Huh, well you're butt ugly then, sorry not sorry about that." Harry informed the kid unrepentantly.

 

The redhead hissed a violent curse that would have hit Harry had it not been for his excellent reflexes. He did love a good fight; shame that she was a girl. One thing his Uncle had taught him before his untimely demise, never hit a girl. A fact that had been backed up with a slap - mostly because the lesson had occurred after Dudley had blamed for little Susy Steeler had gone to the head teacher bawling her eyes out that Dudley Dursley had pushed her off the swings into the mud. Dudley, of course, was a proper gentleman and would never have done such a thing, so clearly it was all Harry’s fault - sometimes, Harry was still a little bitter about that event.

 

"Hmm, violent too," Harry grinned unrepentant. “Kinky."

 

Harry barely escaped with his balls intact after the girls violent scream nearly shattered the windows of Malkins shop. The shop assistant wasn't sad to see him go at all. Harry had been singularly unhelpful in her efforts to fit his robes, squirming all over the place and giving her the most disturbing wink when she’d knelt to pin up his hem.

  

**\---**

 

"Mr. Potter." The breathless whisper was followed by THE creepiest (and probably paedophillic) man Harry had ever met - he had watery blue eyes, white hair that stuck up everywhere, and the kind of wizened face that wouldn’t look out of place on a walnut.

 

Which was saying something because he had lived in fucking prison most of his life.

 

"Yep," Harry commented dryly. "That sells it; I'm fucking outta here.”

 

Ollivander blinked in surprise as the young Potter heir strode from his shop, three weary and bewildered aurors on his tail. Well, he thought, that could have gone better. The wand in the back of his shop that he’d always thought would be Mister Potter’s didn’t even stir - which meant that Ollivander had probably been wrong in any case.

 

Harry darted out the wand-makers shop and skidded to a stop down the far end of the alley where a sign hung from an iron spike set into the pitted brick work. The sign read: **'Knockturn Alley' this way -- >**

 

The sign was worn and battered but the moment Harry stepped foot on that narrow, cobblestone street he felt right at home. It was dark. It was dank. The buildings pressed close together and the stench of magic here was… colder, more violent. Harry shivered in delight, his green eyes gleaming with joy.

 

Besides which it was sooo easy losing his tails down here.... Now, which way was the black market?

 

**\---**

 

One wand (brand new and custom made), a set of the finest quality robes (only slightly blood-spattered) and a set of potion ingredients that would have made a back-alley dealer green with envy, Harry was finally ready to leave the area. 

 

His trunk and books had already been picked up by those ministry types while anything else he needed could probably be sent to him at a later date. After all, they’d plied him to purchase an owl, gently steering him towards a beautiful snowy that had been in the shop for close to eight years apparently, except Harry had spotted the meanest looking doberman puppy towards the back of the shop and promptly fell in love with the frankly bad tempered dog.

 

Harry tossed his wand over and over in one hand, tip to haft, tip to haft, tip to haft with a small smile on his lips. 

 

Perhaps one last stop... Wait… Was that an illegal bookshop he saw?

 

Yes... Yes...he did believe it was...


	5. Chapter 5

Harry stared incredulously at the bright red steam train. 

 

What.

 

The.

 

Actual.

 

Fuck?!

 

Hadn't these magic types moved on from the 1800's? Harry wondered, his eyebrows raised in blank amusement. Beside him his auror escort were clearly celebrating the fact that they were soon to be rid of him. 

 

Bastards, Harry was an absolute delight to be around. The fact that he’d managed to slip through the _Leaky Cauldron_ \- ridiculous name for a pub - and into Muggle London where he’d once again lost them while he’d ducked into the nearest Marks and Sparks and proceeded to… liberate the store of several pairs of jeans, tees, and bars of chocolate; and his newest love affair: a pair of hi-top, black docs. Shoes he was currently wearing, actually.

 

Harry shouldered the expanded-on-the-inside duffle bag - because one look at the clunky trunk the red robed idiots had brought him, Harry had marched them back to the travel store and swapped it out for a luxurious chestnut leather duffle bag that had three times the space of a regulation school trunk - at his side and picked up the cage that housed his brand new doberman puppy. 

 

(Apparently wizards and witches needed a familiar and Harry would be bent over on a teachers desk before picking a fucking cat; and don’t even get him started on the toads.)

 

Wizards, no sense at all.

 

Harry flopped on the bench of the nearest empty compartment he'd found and kicked his bag beneath the seat. The cage with the puppy in it was placed at Harry’s side and Harry reached in and pulled the little biter out by the scruff of his neck.

 

Dark brown eyes glared at Harry and needle like teeth were bared in clear challenge while  Harry smirked at the tiny creature.

 

"I think I'm gonna call you Dante." Harry informed the magically bred dog, tightening his fist on the animals scruff. "You're a right little bastard, aren't ya?" Harry sounded ridiculously pleased at the thought; and Dante growled at his master, scowling helplessly, displeased with the indignity of his current position.

 

**\---**

 

The Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmede station with a squeal of breaks and Harry cussed out the driver as he picked himself up off the floor. 

 

The fact that Dante appeared to be sadistically happy at his master's plight only reinforced Harry's desire to teach the dog some new tricks. The little shit would make an excellent guard dog.

 

Harry scooped the doberman up and stuffed him into one of his expanded robe pockets, ignoring the bemused glances he gained from his peers at the sight. He was still a badass even if he did like dogs. 

 

What would they know anyway? 

 

Harry followed the biggest crowd, ignoring the hollers for the 'firs' years' to make their way over to a man who either had to be on **something** or the result of some fucked up experimentation. There was no way anyone could be that big normally, the wild dude was fucking seven feet tall, for fucks sake.

 

Scaling a weird little carriage that had to have been magically expanded, Harry tugged Dante free of his pocket and onto his lap noting with a disturbed expression the creepy horse-lizard that was apparently responsible for pulling the carriage and sat on the only free seat. 

 

“So,” Harry drawled, removing his fingers from Dante’s adorable acrimonious attempts to chew them off his hands, “whats with the lizard horse pulling the carriage?”

 

A girl with luminous silver eyes and white blonde hair blinked at him, “you can see thestrals?” She asked curiously.

 

Beside her, a red-haired boy rolled his eyes, “nothing pulls the carriages, Loony,” he snorted in disgust.

 

Ignoring the idiot redhead, Harry pinned the girl with a piercing look, “thestrals?”

 

She smiled at him vaguely, “they can only be seen by those who have see death,” she explained.

 

Silence fell over the gathered students as they uncomfortably shifted in their seats at that little bomb shell. Across from him, a blonde haired boy watched him with undisguised curiosity, his bronze and blue tie weighted down with a heavy bronze pin with a big blue 'P' etched on it. 

 

“Which house are you in?” The boy demanded in a haughty tone, narrowing his eyes at Harry’s unmarked tie and robes.

 

Harry eyeballed the kid, while refusing to answer the boys question, and marking him down as an authority type and to avoid him in future. On his lap, Dante bit his jaw down har enough that Harry winced in concert with the rise of blood from the shallow wound that the doberman had created, triumph shining in those dark brown eyes even as the young pup bathed the wound with his long pink tongue. The silvery eyed girls brows rose in surprise and she smiled like she knew something Harry didn’t.

 

Harry decided that while she mightn’t be loony - she _was_ annoying.

 

**\---**

 

Harry walked into the Entrance Hall with bemused eyes, had this place been modernised at all since the Middle Ages or not? Sure, the ceiling was spectacular - if you liked that sort of thing. Harry suspected that it had taken a lot of power to make the ceiling reflect the night sky like it was currently doing but Harry didn’t really care for the sky, having most gown up with the sight of cement walls and bland paint except those few times a week he’d been allowed out into the yard for weekly exercise.

 

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me,” Harry breathed out in delight at the sight of a tall, thin, greasy looking man striding over towards him. “Batman,” Harry exclaimed loud enough to draw horrified gazes from the students around him, “is that you?" 

 

Harry's grin apparently pissed the guy off, never mind his irreverent commentary and the teacher scowled darkly in reprobation. "Mr. Potter, I presume?" 

 

"Who's asking?" Harry asked with a smirk, rolling backwards onto his hind leg, a trick he'd learnt off one of the more... kindly inmates, who had taken the fall for his mobster dad only to be left to rot for the rest of his life - Danny had been sixteen when he’d been picked up and there would be no early release for him. 

 

The teacher's eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, "my name is Professor Severus Snape."

 

"Wait, wait," Harry grinned unrepentantly. "I thought Batman's name was Bruce Banner?"

 

Professor Snape did not look like he appreciated the commentary and barely refrained from snapping at Harry in reply. "Follow me." He directed, sweeping off, clearly expecting Harry to follow.

 

Unfortunately for Snape, Harry had never been good at following directions and with one last incredulous stare at his surroundings, Harry turned around and exited the castle.

 

Fuck this shit, parents or not, Harry was not going to stay in a place that didn't look like it had fucking plumbing, let alone dialup. In the weeks since his release, Harry had grown quite beloved to the idea of the internet.

 

Harry barely made it to the front gates, that were bracketed by a pair of enormous warty boars on plinths, before he was stopped by creepy bat teacher and a man who looked like he should be pushing up daisies already. 

 

Harry eyed the silver beard with irritation, was anyone normal here? "You want me to what, now?" Harry asked drolly.

 

"To return with me to my office to be sorted and to join your classes after a period of catch-up tuition." The old man, who'd identified himself as Albus Dumbledore, stated calmly.

 

"Yeah, see, that's so not happening," Harry replied sarcastically. "See, I'd prefer to be locked back up in fucking juvie before going to a school that looks like it needs a serious make over.”

 

Snape bristled angrily at the insult to his home and his hand spasmed around his wand. 

 

"Mr. Potter…”

 

"And that's another thing," Harry interrupted the greasy haired man. "Why do I have to come here anyway, I've finished my schooling. Got all 'A's' too on my A levels."

 

Dumbledore raised both brows curiously, "that was your muggle education; this is about your magic-“

 

"Yeah and I'm not sold on me having magic or whatever," Harry interrupted again, bored.

 

"Then why even come?" Snape inquired, sounding restrained.

 

Harry shot him a Look. "You ever said 'no' to a fucking copper, mate?”

 

Snape stared at him, "copper?"

 

"Filth?" Harry asked, getting no comprehension, he continued: "Pigs? Fuzz? Flatfoot?" Harry sighed in exasperation. "I'm surrounded by fucking squares!" He despaired. "Police, dick-wad, I was dragged her by fucking police!"

 

Snape blinked and then scowled, "language Potter."

 

"Yeah, well, go fuck yourself." Harry replied irritably.

 

He really shouldn't have been surprised when Snape then stunned him and dragged him up to Dumbledore's office without so much as a 'by your leave’; but then, Harry had a talent for pissing people off, Snape was just the latest in a long string of arseholes.

 

**———**

 

A hat.

 

A raggedy old hat that looked completely unwashed and mouldy.

 

That's what he had to wear to get sorted.

 

"Hell no." Was Harry's announcement at the sight of the Sorting Hat.

 

Had he not been tied to the chair, Harry would have legged it out the door behind him fast enough that he’d have done a Wile E. Coyote and left dust in his wake.

 

Dumbledore sighed tiredly, already tired of Harry's presence and turned a blind eye when Severus, who had already bound the irreverent child to a chair, shot the boy with a stinging hex and dropped the hat on his head.

 

Harry bit back a curse as his vision was covered by the musty interior of the Sorting Hat and all he could smell was dust and mildew. ‘Fuck this,’ Harry muttered to himself internally, ‘sodding ridiculous’.

 

”What have we here?" A voice whispered into Harry's mind. "Plenty of courage I see, not a bad mind either and talent, oh yes, and cunning... Salazar would be drooling to get you in his house..."

 

"Fucking hell is going on?!" Harry yelped in horrified confusion, stunned by the feeling of the Hat’s voice _inside his sodding head_ even as the hat yelled his decision.

 

**"SLYTHERIN!"**

 

“Oh, fuck me," was Snape's response to the Hat’s decision, wondering if he could get away with quitting his job right here and now - he just knew that the arrogant little shit would be even worse than his fucking father.

 

Dumbledore just looked old and weary, shooing the two younger wizards from his office with a deep, low sigh. Albus would deal with the dog at a later date - after he’d had a fortifying cup of tea, some rest, and the opportunity to think this whole mess over.


	6. Chapter 6

"These are the Slytherin Common Rooms, the password is ‘Snake Fang’." Professor Snape announced as he stopped by a blank stone wall, the irreverent Potter Heir at his side.

 

Harry stared at the wall in bemusement, when, at the password being uttered by the Professor, the wall melted away like it was snow beneath a hot summer sun. 

 

"Neat," Harry pronounced against his own will. Eyeing the dark furnishings and silver accents with amusement, Harry wondered if Slytherin was where the walking cliche’s came to stay.

 

Snape eyed him with caustic suspicion. "Try not to blow the place up."

 

"Or what?" Harry asked curiously.

 

"Or I'll turn you into potion ingredients." Was Snape's reply as he walked away.

 

"Well that's not friendly," Harry said sarcastically as he entered the Common Room, trying to ignore the curious gazes he drew. Except, that for all his disinterest in his apparent peers, aloofness was not to be.

 

"Who are you?" A voice demanded.

 

Harry spun around and spotted the kid who'd spoken. Blonde hair and icy grey eyes, the kid looked like a wanna-be albino ferret. The boy was a bit shorter than Harry’s lanky height but was a bit broader - as though he either did hard yard work or an extreme sport. Given the layers of finely cut cloth for the boy’s robes, Harry was inclined to believe the latter.

 

"Frosty? Is that you?" Harry asked sardonically.

 

"What?" The kid frowned in confusion while an Italian-looking kid laughed uproariously. 

 

"Blaise Zabini," The Italian said, pushing passed the albino to Harry, his hand outstretched in welcome.

 

"Harry Potter," Harry shrugged indifferently, ignoring the gasps that the announcement drew. "Where're the seventh year dorms?"

 

"Not one for small talk, eh?" Blaise asked with a bright grin. 

 

Harry shrugged again, not really one for small talk.

 

"Fair enough," Blaise agreed and directed Harry down the stairs and to the left. The doors were labelled with their names apparently, all the seventh and sixth years getting their own rooms.

 

"Cheerio," Harry waved nonchalantly and exited the common room uncaring of the whispers and disbelieving looks he left in his wake. Some of them even calling him that ridiculous appellation the Aurors had explained to him: the Boy-Who-Lived.

 

Fuckers, the lot of them. Harry Potter was no-one's boy-hero.

 

———

 

Harry’s Monday started with him showering, pulling on black jeans and a black tee under his open fronted school robes - that hadn’t been open fronted when he’d bought them, but Harry was a dab hand with a sewing needle and diffindo had been an easy charm to master. One pair black boots later and Dante’s growling, pissy form ripped from his little cocoon in Harry’s still-warm blankets only to be tucked into Harry’s deep robe pocket, and Harry was ready to face the day.

 

Harry milled through the corridors for a while as the sun peeked its face over the horizon, painting the grounds below in gleaming yellow light. Despite only being on the second floor, Harry noted that he could still see quite a distance over sloping grounds and for a moment, Harry swore he had seen a shimmering white unicorn on the edge of the forest. Standing, bracketed between the arches of a closed window that was reminiscent of the cathedral near Feltham - though near was relative - Harry began to feel like Hogwarts might actually, weirdly enough, be something of a fresh start for him.

 

After all, what else would he do? Go back to Petunia and Dudley? People he hadn’t seen in the seven years since his incarceration. Petunia hadn’t even come to his trial and his lawyer had been pro-bono, not having time to explain Harry’s situation to the nearly-ten year old boy beyond the basics. Here at Hogwarts Harry was a celebrity and while Harry didn’t know quite what to do with that, he did know that for whatever reason, he was wanted; and wasn’t that his greatest desire as a kid? To be wanted?

 

Except, and Harry had to acknowledge this bit, except that he was seventeen now, nearly eighteen and frankly - Harry didn’t _need_ to be wanted anymore. Feltham had cured him of that with the dozens of mandatory counselling sessions he had attended. Harry dipped his hand into his robe pocket and brushed his fingers against the thick handle of his wand - 13 inches, made of Australian Buloke with the venom of a Lethifold as its core. As it always did when Harry gripped it tight, the magic in him flowed down the wand’s length, warming his grip.

 

For that feeling alone, Harry acknowledged, he would stay.

 

It took him an hour to traverse the winding corridors down from the second floor to the Great Hall on the first floor. Harry would prefer to never admit that he’d been hopelessly lost but well… that would have been the truth.

 

Finding his way to the Slytherin table, Harry fell into the seat next to Blaise, dumping Dante on the tablecloth and throwing the little beast a chicken drumstick - why they were serving chicken drumsticks at breakfast, Harry had no clue but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth - before he served himself toast and a cup full of the juice they had lying around in the pitchers on the table. One mouthful of that however, had Harry masking his gags and he proceeded to ignore it for the rest of breakfast.

 

Professor Snape descended from the staff table a half hour later to hand out timetables and Harry noted that his and Blaise’s were nothing alike. Harry shrugged off the other boys questions, fishing a dozy Dante from the table and tucking the puppy back in his pocket.

 

“Later,” Harry told the other boy, having no intention of actually keeping to that, and swanning out of the Great Hall, his robes snapping around his booted feet.

 

Blaise watched the other boy leave with curious golden eyes, ignoring the posturing of Malfoy a few seats away. Blaise wouldn’t receive answers to any of his questions for the next few weeks and it would be until October when Harry was placed into fifth year classes, that Blaise guessed that wherever Harry had been - it hadn’t been under Dumbledore’s instruction, learning complicated and dangerous magics.

 

Of course, that didn’t stop Harry from apparently having a damn near gift for Arithmancy and Runes - if Blaise believed Harry’s claims, he’d know that Harry was fluent in Spanish, French as well as Italian. Of course, given that Blaise and Harry would delight in irritating their peers with their long, loud, and involved conversations held in Italian, Blaise was inclined to accept that Harry knew at least _one_ other language - let alone three. 

 

As the days grew shorter, Blaise was coming to realise that Harry was probably the strongest wizard in the school, edging on the Headmaster’s Warlock level of power; but then, a lot of British wizards were bizarrely powerful - it was part of the reason why his mother had turned down Durmstrang for Hogwarts, hoping that the power levels of his fellows would rub off on him.

 

It was probably because of these power levels that accounted for the fact that Harry was absorbing spells and magic like he was relearning, more than being taught for the first time. Blaise had never seen anything like it. Then there was the matter of Harry’s wand, if Blaise was one for being intimidated, then he’d be a lot more uncomfortable with the very deliberately sharpened tip of Harry’s wand. It looked like it was a stake more than it was a wand. Something that had anyone inching away from the Potter Heir in classes, if reports from the younger years was anything to go for.

 

November heralded the arrival of the Quidditch season and Harry, who had been taught to fly some weeks previously, was looking forwards to it in ways that disturbed Blaise. There was something carefree and violent about Harry that led to the Italian wizard walking on eggshells around him at times. That and Dante his dog was growing into a lanky yet vicious creature that often settled beneath his masters seat in the Great Hall and delighted in crunching down beef bones. The Hufflepuff’s were hilarious whenever that happened, jumping at every crack and snap like it was their bones that were breaking.

 

Harry sat opposite the Slytherin beaters, Crabbe and Goyle, and listened to their boasting of cracking open Gryffindor heads and breaking Ravenclaw bones. Given that it was the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor game, tensions were high.

 

“I’m looking forwards to the game,” Harry admitted to Blaise, his green eyes shining with bloodthirsty anticipation.

 

Blaise, who looked faintly squeamish in light of Harry’s violent nature, hummed noncommittally. On Harry’s other side sat a thin, weedy looking boy by the name of Theodore Nott. Theo, as he preferred to be called, was a direct mirror of Harry’s excitement and the two quickly fell into a discussion of how bloody and brutal the game would get. A discussion, to Blaise’s horror, that carried the three of them out of the castle, down across the lawn, and into the stands of the Quidditch pitch.

 

Harry held the lanky Dante in his arms as they skirted the crowd and slipped into the last row, which was known for being the most likely to be hit by bludgers or falling players. Which of course meant that Harry and Theo were thus, the most excited to sit there.

 

“This is going to be a quick game,” Blaise predicted with the air of one desperate for a reprieve.

 

“I hope not,” Theo denied, baiting Dante’s snapping jaws with quick fingers as he shot a smarmy smirk at the aggrieved Italian on Harry’s other side.

 

Harry shrugged, “I’ll consider it a loss if no one dies,” he quipped to the horror of the students in the row beneath them.

 

“Harry!” Blaise’s exclamation was cut off from being expanded as a loud siren as Madam Hooch the flying instructor and main referee of the game, walked out onto the field followed by a pair of sixth year students in junior referee robes that were pristine white. All three referees wore special pendants that prevented the bludgers getting too close to them, which made Harry feel like they were cheating.

 

“Hey Theo,” Harry murmured leaning into the other boy with a wicked grin, “reckon you could disenchant those pendants..?”

 

Theo, who was prepared to be bored until the later half of the game, narrowed his eyes in vicious glee. “You bet,” he agreed before pausing, “although I’m not sure I have enough power for all three…”

 

Harry’s smirk turned nasty, “I have shit tonnes of power, bruv,” he assured Theo, “you’ve just gotta teach me what to do.”

 

Theo grinned. “I can do that.”

 

Harry turned to Blaise, who hadn’t been paying attention to the hushed conversation beside him and was instead focused on listening to the introduction by the silvery eyed girl from the carriages. Luna, Harry thought her name was.

 

“Blaise,” Harry hissed, “need to hit the head, hold Dante until I get back.”

 

Blaise tried to protest as Harry and Theo left the stands, looking suspiciously blank faced and bored. Dante squirmed in Blaise’s arms, looking disgruntled to have been left behind. “What are they up to?” Blaise grumbled.

 

Harry and Theo ended up under the teachers box, wands out and smirking grins on their faces. Madam Hooch and the two sixth years were waiting in the shadow of the teachers box, waiting for the teams to arrive. Theo spoke in a hushed voice as he demonstrated the half circle and then upwards slash that dispelled most enchantments on objects and people.

 

Harry suppressed his grin as he sent a bolt of mostly clear, white light at the unprotected back of the smallest sixth year, a boy who he thought was from Hufflepuff. Theo hit Madam Hooch, looking exhausted after that single over powered spell that was a curse-breakers variation on _finite incantatum_. Harry nailed the other boy, an oafish looking Ravenclaw; and giggling to each other, Harry and Theo dashed back to their seats.

 

At Blaise’s bland, yet inquiring, expression, Theo shrugged. “Potter’s more fun than I thought,” was all he said.

 

Blaise, who knew that Theo had been caught skinning a cat with a _knife_ in their second year by Professor Snape, blanched at the thought that Theodore Nott considered Harry to be _fun_. “Wonderful,” he drawled sarcastically.

 

With the shrill tone of Madam Hooch’s whistle, fourteen players and three referees kicked off the ground and into the sky. The two black bludgers were already rocketing around the pitch overhead and the snitch had long since disappeared.

 

Malfoy, who was both team Captain and the Seeker, hung almost motionless overhead as he watched his well-drilled team work in smooth concert with each other. Far below, in the highest level of Slytherin’s house box, Harry narrowed his eyes towards the other end of the pitch.

 

“Why isn’t Malfoy going for the snitch?” Harry asked in slight frustration.

 

Blaise turned to Harry and cocked a smooth eyebrow, “probably because it hasn’t shown itself yet?”

 

Theo, who had followed Harry’s gaze to the far end wondered if indeed it had shown itself. “Can you see it, Harry?” Theo asked, narrowing his eyes slightly in the hope he’d catch sight of it, but all he could see was the flashy red robes of the blood-traitor Weasley in front of the three hoops.

 

Harry pulled his fingers from Dante’s mouth and tapped the puppy on the nose once in admonishment even as he nodded to the far left hoop, near Weasley’s right shoe. “Just under Weasley.”

 

Blaise stilled, “you can see the snitch from here?” He demanded.

 

Harry tilted his head at Blaise. “Can’t everyone?”

 

“No!” Blaise snapped in irritation.

 

Harry shrugged. “Bummer.”

 

The game passed quickly, Slytherin resorting to dirty tricks under Weasley’s determined guide of the Gryffindor chasers. One of the Gryffindor beaters had already been subbed out after a brilliant bludger to the head by Crabbe. The Gryffindor seeker, another Weasley, suddenly plummeted to the ground.

 

Malfoy, who had been distractedly screaming at Goyle to take the other beater out, quickly followed the girl, sending his broom careening past her despite not seeing the snitch, quickly becoming wildly out of control and quite unable to pull out of the loop that sent him crashing into the Hufflepuff prefect tower. The female Weasley slowed her own broom the moment Malfoy shot passed her and sent a rude hand gesture his way after the two student referees had dug him out of the mess.

 

Slytherin cursed as an entire house as Malfoy’s shattered broom was pulled out after him and Malfoy himself was benched for the rest of the game. Blaise, his eyes shining, pulled Harry out of his seat, Theo following close behind, and down to where Malfoy lay groaning on the grass near the showers.

 

“That was a spectacular dive, Draco,” Blaise jeered as he flopped down beside his housemate.

 

“Fuck off, Blaise,” Malfoy returned viciously. Catching sight of Theo and Harry, Malfoy’s lip curled. “What are they doing here?”

 

“Potter’s going to cover you for the rest of the game,” Blaise told Malfoy. “We’re up a hundred points but that wont make a lick of difference if Weaslette catches the snitch.”

 

Harry, who hadn’t been listening, was startled as Malfoy called his name. Turning, Harry met Draco’s eyes, “yes?”

 

“Good, get dressed, I’ll lend you my spare broom,” Malfoy said bitterly.

 

“Wait, what?” Harry demanded as Blaise dragged him into the Slytherin changing rooms.

 

“You’re subbing for Draco,” Blaise grunted, throwing a pair of unclaimed robes at Harry’s head. “Get dressed.”

 

Harry stripped, utterly unconcerned at Blaise being there, and pulled the brilliant, green robes on. With a faint shimmer of the enchantments, the robes sized themselves to Harry’s lean frame and on his back, his last name spanned the breadth of his shoulders in silver script and just beneath his name was the number 7 - the Seekers number.

 

“What do I do?” Harry asked Blaise as he wrapped his wrists and shins in guards over his robes and boots.

 

Blaise met Harry’s gaze fiercely, “you catch the snitch, at any cost. You win.”

 

Harry smirked and shrugged, “sure.”

 

Malfoy came in, braced on Theo’s shoulder, “Potter, here,” the blonde boy said, holding out an exceptional racing broom with _Nimbus 2001_ carved on the handle. “It’s my spare,” Malfoy explained, “do not,” he warned, “break it.”

 

Harry shot the other boy a wicked smirk, “what, like you did yours?”

 

Malfoy’s lip curled in disgust, “make no mistake, Potter, this is temporary. Don’t get comfortable.”

 

Harry shrugged again, “sure.”

 

“Harry,” Blaise called out as Harry made to leave the change room, meeting the Italians eyes Harry found himself breathless in anticipation, “knock em dead,” the other wizard all but ordered.

 

Theo’s grin promised a massacre, “make them hurt.”

 

“Make sure you win,” Draco added severely.

 

Harry stepped out onto the pitch to stunned silence and then roaring applause from the Slytherin stands. It was like a bird had taken flight in his belly as Harry mounted his broom to Madam Hooch’s pause of play, joining the Weasley girl in the sky.

 

“Potter!” Weaslette squawked in shock, her brown eyes wide. “What are you doing here? Can you even fly?”

 

Harry shot her a vicious grin, “better than you,” he snarked; then, with absolute nonchalance, Harry let go of his magics hold on the enchantments of the broom and plummeted towards the ground completely at gravities mercy.

 

To Keeper Weasley’s screams of: “MARK HIM, GINNY! MARK HIM!” Weaslette followed Harry’s superior broom and flying skills on a brilliant lap of the pitch. Harry barrel rolled around the teachers stands, making the Gryffindor Seeker narrowly miss crashing into them in a fit of irony of the gods; then, he spotted the snitch.

 

Slytherin was already leading 230 to 110, it was still anyones game - depending on who caught the snitch. Harry however, was having heaps of fun still and while he chased the snitch, he didn’t exactly give it his best shot.

 

Darting ahead of him in a zig-zag pattern, the snitch tried to shake the eagle-eyed boy of its tail, but Harry was far too good for it. As Weaslette rose above him, trying to use altitude to beat him, Harry dove in concert with the snitch.

 

60 metres.

 

40 metres.

 

20.

 

15 and Weaslette pulled out with a frustrated cry of fury, hoping that the snitch would dart sideways and into her waiting hands.

 

10 metres…

 

3 metres and Harry corkscrewed the broom to the side and then up, even as he swung down with his upper body, plucking the snitch from a bare metre from the ground. Snatching a hand tight around the staff of the broom, Harry rocketed upwards into the sky, his right hand stretched out over his head in victory, his feet braced on the stirrups made of enchantments beneath him, lifting himself up in a semi-standing position.

 

“YEEAAAAHHHH!!!!” Harry cried out, joyous in his win; nearly knocking Weaslette off her broom as he shot past.

 

Slytherin seemed to still in their stunned amazement and then they broke out in raucous applause. Despite their shaky few years, Gryffindor had never gone without a win the past three seasons with Ginny Weasley as their star seeker. Slytherin had been close a few times but never like this. Malfoy tended to choke in his last game if he ever made it to the finals, almost like he couldn’t bring himself to win.

 

But now, with such a resounding victory in their first game, Slytherin were sure that this year was the year for their luck to be turned around. 400 to 120. They had an incredible lead.

 

For Harry, coasting down to meet a livid Malfoy, it was the beginning of a love for Hogwarts. As long as he got to play Quidditch again, Harry would consider himself content.


End file.
